The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He looked at Payne and knew he was sharing his thoughts. Sixteen years old. It had not been much of a life for him.

  Lieutenant Christopher Wyke leaned over the guardrails and stared impatiently at the swaying mass of boats alongside. He reached out and seized the arm of his second-in-command. ‘Hurry them up, Charles! They’re like a lot of old women!’ The second lieutenant scrambled down one of the dangling ladders, probably remembering the Australians who had done this very thing only a few nights ago. The colonel’s revelation, too, that casualties of battalion strength had fallen during the same period.

  Wyke saw Jonathan in the darkness and said, ‘Impulsive’s detachment have been off-loaded, sir. I’m just disembarking the H.Q. Platoon. We’ve got some horse-boats apparently.’ He sounded disdainful, as if horse-boats were hardly fit for Royal Marines.

  Jonathan joined him by the rail and looked at the strange oblong craft. They would carry more than cutters or whalers, but it was just as well that the sea was almost flat. The noise seemed incredibly loud. Voices that urged or controlled the scrambling marines like horse trainers; clinking equipment and the occasional gasp of pain as somebody’s heavy boot crushed the fingers of the next man down the ladder. But he knew from experience that at this distance from land the sounds would be lost in the sigh of the sea, especially along this rocky coast.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Waring was everywhere at once, striding up and down amongst the waiting sections and squads of men, his voice demanding and irritable. Always close by, his M.O.A., loaded down with pack and extra equipment, was finding it hard to keep up with him.

  ‘Ah, so here you are, Blackwood!’ It sounded vaguely accusing. ‘Are our H.Q. people in the boats yet?’ He saw Wyke and snapped, ‘You should be with your men!’

  The battle-cruiser’s vast stretch of pale planking was emptying more quickly, and Waring muttered to nobody in particular, ‘That’s more like it. Swank and swagger, not a horde of bloody moaners!’

  One of the ship’s lieutenants found them by the guardrails.

  ‘The Captain’s compliments, sir, and he wishes you luck.’

  Waring dismissed him with a curt nod. ‘Luck!’ He sniffed. ‘Hardly that, believe me!’

  Another tall figure loomed from the darkness. It was the Australian colonel.

  ‘I won’t be seeing you until your men are in position. The admiral’s sending me ashore in his own barge so that I can prepare for your arrival.’ He glanced at the faint stars. ‘Seems quiet enough.’

  Jonathan heard a marine murmur, ‘The admiral’s barge, eh, Tom? Doesn’t want it filled with the likes of us!’ And others, invisible, chuckled.

  Jonathan saw the Reverend Simon Meheux standing by some empty davits, his surplice flapping in the breeze. All his other darker clothing merged with the night, so that he appeared to be hovering above the deck. Jonathan had always thought him a rather ineffectual sort of man, who was slow to offer an opinion in the wardroom. Apart from religious matters, he occupied himself more with writing long letters to his superiors about the need for better instruction and education concerning the Church in general, than with the sailors he was supposed to serve.

  Another small drama happened even as he watched the next file of marines clambering down the nearest ladder. A man removed his sun-helmet and stepped out of the ranks as the chaplain was passing.

  ‘Would you bless me, Father?’

  Meheux seemed startled. ‘I am not a Catholic, my son. But be assured, God will be with you when you need him!’ He hurried away as if afraid of becoming involved.

  Sergeant McCann, a massively built man with square hands like a pair of spades, rapped out, ‘You’ll need more than God to ’elp you if you breaks ranks again, my son!’

  Colonel Ede said, ‘Sorry we didn’t have time to speak together, Captain Blackwood. I know your family’s history. We could certainly use a few more officers like you.’

  Jonathan said, ‘Like them perhaps, sir. Not like me, I think.’

  Ede was staring at him as if his eyes could pierce the darkness without difficulty.

  ‘I think you’re wrong.’ He glanced at Waring but he was speaking sharply to another officer. ‘I’ve seen too many bloody heroes just lately. Death or glory, but mostly the former. Those days are gone forever.’

  A midshipman murmured, ‘The barge is ready for lowering, sir.’

  Ede nodded and then shook hands. Afterwards Jonathan remembered it: hard and rough like the man, but warm too. A man you would follow to hell and back if need be.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Waring gave a brief smile. ‘It’s all been too much for him – that’s what’s wrong with these people, Blackwood!’

  ‘Ready, sir!’

  Jonathan glanced around and saw off-duty seamen watching them. Deep in his heart he must have known it was to be like this, and now it was time. He felt untried, unready.

  Waring snapped, ‘Off you go, Blackwood. It is the custom, you know!’

  Jonathan climbed down, his body already soaking with sweat. Apart from the awkward sun-helmets none of them had been issued with light tropical clothing and they were still wearing thick serge tunics and breeches. Once ashore in the bright sunshine it would be torture.

  Payne was waiting in the crowded horse-boat, and some witty marine, safe in the darkness, whispered, ‘We must be all right, lads – the Colonel’s with us!’

  Two cruisers were already towing their clusters of boats, the hulls merely shadows, their size revealed only by their bow-waves.

  Silence closed over the boats as they were warped astern of Reliant’s pale shape until they were moving again, the boats squeaking together, the water splashing dangerously over the gunwales.

  Waring crouched with his shaded torch and took a quick glance at his map. Then he and the other officers checked their watches, as if to put a seal on the task ahead.

  When at last the main tow-lines were cast off and the steam pinnaces took the strain on their assorted charges, Jonathan felt the sudden sense of loneliness like something physical. Men he had come to know in the day-to-day routine of a big warship, faces in the mess, cheering at the make-shift boxing-matches and skylarking on the passage out from Portsmouth, the sweating tolerance at the drills and inspections. Now that had all been discarded, and the towering funnels and tops of Reliant’s outline had already vanished into the night.

  A lot of men around him would be thinking that. Like the marine who had asked for a blessing, had risked the scorn and the ribbing of his mates, because he needed it.

  Once, the boats swayed and banged together when the towing pinnace swerved hard over. Later as they ploughed past a stationary pinnace with its towed boats drifting out in all directions, Waring demanded to know what was wrong.

  The pinnace had broken down, and the towed boats, with most of Impulsive’s marines crammed aboard, were unable to proceed.

  Jonathan heard Impulsive’s marine captain yell, ‘The snotty says we’ll be moving very soon, sir!’

  ‘If not, I’ll send someone for you!’ He brandished his black stick. ‘Can’t hang about here! Plan Two?’

  Jonathan felt Tarrier close beside him. ‘Will it make any difference, sir?’

  ‘It shouldn’t. Major Livesay will lead, that’s all.’

  The drifting boats were soon lost astern, and Jonathan realised that the pinnace had been the one which had carried Ede and the dying midshipman out from the beach. Perhaps he should mention it to Waring. The pinnace might have been damaged by rifle fire, and her present crew might not know how to restart it.

  He peered at Waring’s erect shadow and dismissed the idea. It was too late.

  Payne touched his arm and whispered, ‘Look, sir! The land!’ His round Hampshire accent was somehow comforting as the rugged wall of cliffs loomed out of the night sea.

  Waring grunted, ‘If there’s nobody here . . .’ But there was. A shuttered lamp flashed from very low down on the small beach where they were supposed to get ashore. Colonel Ede had
kept his word, and had reached it first and without incident.

  ‘As soon as we’re in our H.Q., Blackwood, we’ll get a wiring party on the move. Rig field telephones that we’re used to. I don’t want any of their stuff!’

  Then he waved his stick above his head. ‘Pass the word, Sergeant! Prepare to beach!’

  Blackwood strained his ears above the noise of sea on sand, the clatter of tackle as their pinnace cast off and thrashed astern clear of danger. Nobody had fired a shot. The silence was almost painful.

  ‘Now!’ Waring clambered over the square bows as the horse-boat crashed onto the sand, with some marines leaping into the shallows to steady it, and others helping the next boats on the tow to punt their way in towards what appeared to be a narrow crescent of beach hemmed in by fallen rocks.

  ‘Take charge!’ Waring stamped his boots free of sand. ‘Sergeant McCann, scouts and pickets at the double!’

  A corporal was leading a shadowy figure from the rocks, the guide sent by Colonel Ede.

  Jonathan heard the men getting into some kind of order and wondered if Major Livesay’s contingent had got ashore yet on the other side of the beach. God, he thought, the cliff was even higher than he had imagined. It might take longer than hoped to get all their equipment up it to the Australian positions.

  The anonymous guide said thickly, ‘Took yer time, didn’t you?’ He gestured with his thumb. ‘Follow me close an’ do exactly what I say!’ Then he was gone, with Wyke and his platoon sergeant stumbling behind him.

  Waring snapped, ‘Uncouth lout!’

  Jonathan loosened his revolver and watched the men clambering past him. They had practised this sort of thing in their field-training. He looked up at the cliff, the pale stars so far away. But it was not the same. This was enemy territory. He saw a young marine unclipping his water bottle, and seized his wrist. ‘Not here, and not yet!’ The youth stared at him but hurried on, too breathless to speak.

  Reliant would be far away already, and tomorrow she might be required to offer covering fire.

  He walked carefully after the last section and thought he heard the next steam pinnace panting towards the beach.

  Tomorrow? It was today.

  Six

  The Australian infantry captain rearranged a thick blanket across the entrance of what was obviously a natural cave and turned up a solitary oil lamp.

  ‘Colonel Ede’s sorry he couldn’t wait to get you settled in, but he’ll be starting the stand-down in half-an-hour.’

  Jonathan sat on a packing case and stared wearily at the cramped place that was to be their headquarters until the Australians took over the line again. It had been a long, hard climb from the beach, their guide reaching out in the darkness like a blind man as he waved them into silence, or told them to duck when crossing a clearing. Even he had seemed surprised at the lack of firing, although several times they had heard the impartial clatter of machine-guns to the north.

  The trench, which had been hastily hacked out after the first Australian advance, twisted and turned across the ridge, and would, the infantry captain explained, give a perfect view in daylight.

  Jonathan heard the marines hurrying to take up their positions, confused and alarmed at the speed of the takeover. The Australians looked exhausted, and like this captain were dirty and unshaven, their uniforms cut and torn from climbing the rough terrain or dropping down hillsides to avoid sniper fire.

  He asked, ‘Will they attack tonight, d’you think?’

  ‘Unlikely. They’ll wait until we’ve pulled out. They know your lot are new to this game. My guess is that they’ll try to retake this position tomorrow.’

  So the stealth and the secrecy had been for nothing. Colonel Ede had warned them about that too. It was wrong to underestimate the Turks.

  The curtain moved and Waring’s burly figure ducked into the light. One glance took in the field-telephone and the marine who was working on it, the litter of empty meat tins and bottles: a battlefield slum.

  ‘Not very satisfactory, is it?’

  The Australian said curtly, ‘Not my fault, Colonel.’

  Jonathan was afraid the man would leave, and yet there was so much he needed to know.

  ‘What about prisoners? I didn’t see any enclosures on the way.’

  The captain accepted it like a peace offering. ‘No prisoners here. A bayonet is the best way of settling an argument.’

  Waring was staring at a makeshift bunk. ‘What about him? Shouldn’t he be getting ready with the others?’

  ‘No, Colonel, we’ll take him when we go.’ He took a cigarette gratefully from Payne and lit it with great care. ‘It’s our brigade-major. Got too eager to see the enemy positions. Sniper got him bang through the head.’ He added reflectively, ‘Not a bad old bird, so I thought we’d take him down with us.’ He looked at his cigarette and his hand, which was shaking suddenly as if with fever. ‘Christ.’

  Second Lieutenant Tarrier came into the cave, swallowing hard. ‘All in position, sir.’ Despite his sunburn he looked deathly pale; like the dying midshipman, Jonathan thought.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Tarrier licked his lips. ‘Corpses. Just over the parapet. The stench is terrible. I never thought . . .’ He retched and ran from the cave.

  The Australian said, ‘Poor little bugger. He’s seen nothing yet, believe me.’

  Some of his men came with a stretcher and rolled the dead officer onto it, but not before Jonathan had seen the bloodied bandages wrapped carelessly around his head, and one outthrust hand, tightly clenched as at the moment of impact.

  ‘Ask permission before you come in here!’ Waring was getting angrier by the minute. The soldiers ignored him and tramped out into the darkness.

  There was a sudden crack, and the Australian opened out a stained map and spread it on another empty case. ‘That’s the gully leading to our next position, here.’ He pointed with a grimy finger. ‘A fixed rifle, we think, and a sniper fires every so often when he figures someone might be using it.’ He gave a strained grin. ‘Good thinking. It’s the only one we can use.’

  A marine poked his head into the lamplight. ‘Major Livesay is here, sir.’

  ‘I’ll come at once. Officers’ meeting in thirty minutes.’

  The Australian crossed his legs and looked at the empty bunk and the black stain beneath it.

  ‘I must say, I don’t care much for your colonel.’

  Jonathan smiled. ‘I’d like to hear what might be of some help. Most of my men are new recruits. They were supposed to continue their training at Port Said, but . . .’

  The man nodded. ‘But. What a lot of wars have hinged on that word.’ He leaned forward and put his hand on Jonathan’s sleeve. ‘When they come at you, you must show them you’re not going to run, see? They’ll attack all along the defence line, regardless of losses, and if they’re allowed to get near enough they’ll pitch bombs into the trenches.’ He added with sudden bitterness, ‘We don’t have any bloody bombs, of course!’

  ‘Nor do we.’

  ‘We make our own until supplies start coming through. Cocoa tins, bullets, short fuse – you know how it is.’ His hand pressed down harder. ‘But don’t let them get that close or you’re done for. Order your blokes up on the parapet and face them with bayonets, clubs, axes, anything you can find. There are plenty of spare rifles around here. Their owners don’t need ’em any more. Get your officers to use ’em. That fancy pistol of yours is a dead—’ He grinned again. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression, giveaway. Johnny Turk always picks off the officers first. Then there’s drinking-water . . .’

  ‘I’ve already passed the word about that.’

  ‘Good lad.’ He was probably three or four years younger than Jonathan but spoke with the authority of a veteran. ‘There should be a lighter coming into the cove tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But then, the war was supposed to be over by Christmas.’ He stood up and patted his pockets. ‘Last word on the subject of prisoner
s and then I’m off. Don’t let the bastards take any of your men.’ He looked at him steadily. ‘They’ll send ’em back to you, a piece at a time.’

  Jonathan watched him, fascinated despite his chilling words. This man wanted to go, get away from all of it, but something stronger seemed to be holding him back.

  ‘This is the narrowest part of the peninsula, and to the left front is Sari Bair, the biggest ridge hereabouts. It commands the whole area. It’s only four miles across the peninsula to the narrows. Get to there and we’ve cut the bastards in half.’ He stared at the map with angry, reddened eyes. ‘They put us down here to do just that. I’m only a soldier, but I tell you now, it can’t be done.’

  An Australian sergeant leaned through the entrance. ‘Ready for the off, Ben?’

  ‘Too right.’ He shook hands solemnly. ‘My name’s Duffy. My dad builds boats in Perth. Look us up some day if we both make it.’ He was gone as if he had not been real, a spectre from some other time and place.

  Waring and Major Livesay pushed in, and after dusting off one of the empty crates they sat and compared their maps.

  Livesay mopped his face and neck with a piece of rag. ‘God, what a place. Cross between a slaughterhouse and a cemetery!’ He nodded to Jonathan. ‘All our guns are in position. Lines have been rigged to the next trench, and I have two sections of men digging out deeper defences. Tomorrow we’ll get a line run down to the beach, maybe two in case of accidents.’

  Waring listened in silence as Jonathan related what the Australian captain had told him, his face expressionless and only his sprouting moustache giving any hint of irritation.

  ‘Officers with rifles and bayonets?’ He sounded shocked. ‘This is not the French Revolution!’ Then he smiled, like a schoolmaster with a slow-thinking pupil. ‘Impulsive’s contingent will soon be with us.’

  Livesay seemed uneasy. ‘They may not have been able to get under way again, sir. Or one of the ships might have towed them back to the squadron.’

  Waring looked pleased. ‘You’ve got to think, Livesay!’ He tapped his forehead. ‘That’s how you survive and win.’ He yawned. ‘I’ve already sent a pinnace to find them and bring them in.’